Lisaveta slid the ribbon free and lifted the hinged lid on the sandalwood box. Inside, nestled in a bed of crushed green velvet, was a necklace of gold with two jeweled charms attached. The charms were exquisite miniatures of desert towns, walled and minareted and architecturally detailed. Cloisonné and pounded gold alternated for brickwork on the walls, jewels were windows, the crenellated towers were tipped with precious platinum, the central gates opened on delicate crafted hinges. They were less than an inch in length and on the base of each a small plaque had been set. One read Bokhara-the other Samarkand.
Lisaveta's eyes filled with tears. Like the lover in Hafiz's poem, Stefan was giving her Bokhara and Samarkand.
"For the mole on thy cheek," he whispered, and when she lifted her head and smiled, he saw she was crying. "You don't like it," he teased, uncomfortable with tears.
She shook her head, unable to speak with the lump in her throat.
"You like it?" he said, uncertain of the exact meaning of her head shake.
She nodded.
"Good." He grinned in pleasure and relief. "Now if I kiss away all your tears and you give me a smile, I'll let you have baby's present, too." Bending over he took her hands in his, placed them on his shoulders and proceeded to gently kiss away her tears.
"I love you," Lisaveta murmured as his warm mouth moved over her cheeks, wishing it were possible to define the extent of her happiness, her mind stumbling over all the pleasure words, searching for one adequate to her feelings. "Is it like winning?" she asked obscurely, her voice hushed against Stefan's mouth as he nibbled at her lip.
"Mmm?" he said. She tasted like perfumed nectar or sugared sweets or both together, he thought, wondering if one lost one's mind when passionately in love. He'd never considered himself a fanciful man before.
"Is love like winning a battle for you?" she asked with more clarity, and sat up straighter so Stefan's mouth slid over her chin and into nothingness.
Leaning back on one elbow, he stretched out his lean body before answering. "It's better." His smile was the one his father had seen and his mother and few others-an open, contented, unblemished smile. "Is love like translating the perfect quatrain in Hafiz?" he asked then in analogous query.
"It's better," she said.
And they both smiled.
"You know what I'm feeling," Lisaveta declared.
Stefan nodded. "Exactly. I consider the sensations revolutionary and cataclysmic and also-"
"Balmy."
"How did you know?" He never used the word.
Nor did she. Lisaveta shrugged, then grinned and said, "Perhaps the shaman drums are beating."
"They have," he said with an answering grin, "done a damn good job of looking out for me. And for Haci. We both have futures again." Stefan's friend had recovered in the weeks since the journey to Kars and was back in his village, making plans for an April wedding. "And speaking of futures," he said, holding out the second present, "open this. I want to show you and baby something I hope you'll like."
When she opened the small box wrapped in pale yellow paper, she found a key inside-a door key.
"It's a surprise," Stefan said to her inquiring look. "Now, put this on and I'll show you." Handing her the cherry-red cashmere robe lying on the bed, he rose and, picking up his trousers from where he'd dropped them the previous night, slipped them on.
"I don't like surprises," Lisaveta protested as he pulled her from the bed.
"You'll like this one," he replied, drawing her with him across the room. "It's not for you anyway. It's a surprise for baby, but baby can't see it unless you cooperate." He grinned and put out his hand. "Give me the key."
When she handed it to him they walked the few remaining steps to the door opening into the adjoining room and he slid the key into the lock.
"We've been home only three days," Lisaveta said, bemused and curious, her voice tentative.
"I left instructions with Militza," Stefan said. Pushing the door open, he turned to watch Lisaveta's face.
She stood transfixed on the threshold. A nursery had been installed in the room next door, in the room she'd once occupied, and the previous space was completely transformed.
A lapis lazuli ceiling twinkling with diamond stars shone down on them.
The floor was carpeted in a field of yellow daisies.
The wallpaper was hand-painted with fairy tales.
And in an embrasure near a sunny window stood her cradle-the one that had always graced her old nursery at Rostov.
"My cradle," she exclaimed. The familiar swan shape was swathed in white gauze draperies suspended from a crowned canopy, exactly as she remembered.
"I thought you might like the next generation to sleep where you slept," Stefan said, his smile benevolent. "Come see your silver rattle." And tightening his grip on her hand, he tugged her along.
Her silver rattle, the one given as a gift, her mother had said, by Peter the Great and passed down in her family for more than a century, lay shining on the white silk coverlet.
"Even though you don't like surprises, do you approve of the decor? Feel free to change anything," Stefan quickly added, when Lisaveta didn't answer immediately.
"I like the stars," she said, turning to him with a smile.
"A personal whim. I'm glad you approve."
"And everything else, too," she added, slipping her arms around his waist. "You're incredibly sweet and kind and I love you so much my heart sings."
"We could perform a duet then, dushka," Stefan softly whispered, holding her lightly in his arms, "because my heart sings, too…and soon we can harmonize in trio," he added with a grin. Although his voice was buoyant, his words were underlaid with earnestness. "Tell me, Princess Bariatinsky, how you can't live without me."
"I can't," Lisaveta said simply.
"Nor can I without you."
It was a revelation to them both, independent as they were, that they could so conspicuously and extravagantly savor that constraint.
But in love, of course, it wasn't constraint but fascinating attachment, nor was it binding need so much as affectionate harmony.
And ardent passion, as well.
And fond desire.
"I may not soldier for the Tsar so much," Stefan told her.
"I didn't dare ask."
"I need you more," he quietly said.
"The Bariatinskys have served their share," Lisaveta said, tracing the deep scar running from Stefan's shoulder down his chest. His worst laceration wasn't completely healed yet and his arms were crisscrossed with saber scars. The two bullet wounds in his side would be permanently discolored because they'd been infected so long before adequate treatment. "And the peace treaty will be signed soon. Maybe there won't be any more wars."
He opened his mouth to answer and then decided against his cynical reply. It seemed out of place in the sunny, toy-filled nursery. "I hope not," he said instead. "Haci tells me it's time for us both to sire children and race our ponies." His mouth quirked into a smile. "It's not a bad idea…if you don't mind."
"And if I do?" Lisaveta replied, mischief in her eyes.
His answering grin was wolfish, his dark eyes seductive. He had no intention of devoting himself exclusively to his ponies; the object of his devotion was in his arms.
"We can talk about it," Lisaveta coquettishly said.
"Yes, talk," Stefan agreed in a tone of voice suggestive of several things other than talk. "May I invite you into my bedroom for some preliminary discussion." He loosened her arms from around his waist.
"I might be interested," she replied, affecting demureness.
"Is there something that might further pique your interest, Madame Princess?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, there is." Her golden eyes were amused.
"Is it something, perhaps, more accessible in a different venue?" His body exuded warmth as she stood beside him, his lazy intonation heated in another way.